


Observation

by bexacaust



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 18:20:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6968725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bexacaust/pseuds/bexacaust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re too beautiful to be real, you know that?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Observation

_Beautiful is **empty**  
Beautiful is **free**_

Perceptor sat with his back against the wall, drowsing lightly. He had finished his shift, and upon realizing Drift was not in their shared habsuite, had gone searching for the samurai mech.

He had found him, in the dim sparring room, kneeling in the center. Optics were offlined and shuttered, and the soft sounds of air intake and vented exhalation whispered into the empty space. The low hum of music, like a faerie metronome, sang softly in the low light. Perceptor settled, watching.

Scientists were ever fascinated by the world around him, and as much as Perceptor refused to admit it, Drift _captivated_ him. Light steps that gave no sound, serene smiles and laughter in his words regardless of the struggles that kept him aloof and watching even as he relaxed amongst friends.

The ring of a beat sounded out, and Perceptor watched as Drift rose to his feet after a long release of air. The swordmech’s eyes were still dim and shuttered as he began to move and Perceptor felt his jaw fall open as he watched.

He swore it was in slow motion; the curl of fingers around the hilt of a sword, the steps as sure as a lightning strike and yet light as raindrops bouncing from window-glass.

Perceptor leaned forward, watching the flow and bend of Drift’s motions, smooth enough to almost be organic; a reed in the breeze. The thrum of a blade whipping through the air and every motion pinpointed with a soft huff.

And his optics shuttered. His expression was soft, relaxed, peaceful. And he moved, dear _ **Primus**_ , how he could move. Perceptor’s fingers twitched on the datapad he held, the stylus in his hand suddenly sliding over the surface and he sketched.

He traced out the heavy curve of hips and thighs, the in-tuck of a narrow waist he suddenly desperately wanted to catch hold of. The sway of a body made lovely by a distant past; outlined in scars of both the physical and emotional nature. As Drift moved through his forms, recalled his steps, Perceptor swore he saw him slide along the spectrum of Autobot and Decepticon like a dancer flirting with infinity.

The sharp turns and heavy steps of a gunner with targets locked; the flow and rhythm of a swordmaster of a bygone age with wings tucked close to a spinal strut, and something unendingly and irrefutably DRIFT in nature; some strange morbid beauty in the art of death made holy in this dark back room lit only by a single overhead light.

Drift’s speed increased, slowly, surely, wickedly. His optics half-unshuttered and glittered a bright azure, and Perceptor felt his spark stutter at the slow smile that grew on Drift’s expression like funeral lilies on long abandoned battlefields. 

And then…. it was over.

Perceptor shook himself, pulling his mind back from the strange dreamstate his observations had guided him to settle into like a familiar lover to a berth and Drift stood, exhaling slowly through his vents and opening his optics fully. Perceptor glanced down to his datapad to see the sketch he didn’t remember making of Drift. The swordsmech gracefully sliding through his motions and then a shadow was over the screen and a chuckle sounded in the air.

“Perce, you could’ve said something when you came in.”

That voice, that unguarded voice low and smooth like the rumble of thunder on the horizon and Perceptor looked up in the helpless awe of someone who had spoken to God.

“Uhm, P-Percy?”

The scientist slowly got to his feet, tucking away his datapad so he could reach out for the swordsmech who stared in confused amusement.

“Percy are oka- mmf!”

Drift wriggled, pressing closer to the ex-Wrecker and melting a little into the sudden kiss before he looped his arms around Perceptor’s waist.

When they separated, Drift grinned, “Well then. I’ll have to let you sit in more often if _this_ is the reaction I get.”

Perceptor swallowed hard, servos tracing absent patterns on Drift’s waist before he let his head rest on Drift’s shoulder.

“What’s wrong?”, asked the samurai, instantly worried at Perceptor’s strange behavior.

_“You’re too beautiful to be real, you know that?”_

Drift was struck dumb by the whisper; murmured against the slope of his frame where neck met shoulder like a confession in the midnight hour. He tightened his grip on the waist of the scientist for lack of a better means of communicating.

_“I can almost believe Primus is real when I watch you. I can almost **believe** it, Drift.”_

Drift shivered at the words whispered against him; and they stood for a while in the silence with nothing but the overhead light a witness to Perceptor’s moment of weakness.


End file.
